Through Fervor, Flame and Darkness
by TheExistentialist
Summary: "Sometimes what we see deep within others may show you something of yourself that you do not wish to know." With a deep-set hatred of undead, a man of dubious origins finds he is the long-awaited Dovahkiin of nordic legend. In a search for vengeance, the unorthodox Son of Akatosh finds that he must ally with one that he hates if Skyrim is to survive the coming onslaught.


It is a strange thing, destiny. It leads us to the strangest of places; sometimes the worst imaginable, but sometimes will far exceed all our hopes and expectations. For many it is a combination of both. For those who are bound by it, ordained with a role to play by the Gods, it is mind-numbing. Is their fate inevitable, already written and woven into the fabric of life by some great celestial loom? One must wonder, if they are so chosen, if they in fact have any say in the matter, where they go, who they come to know. If they are destined to arrive at a certain place, prophesied as a certain man that we know was, will are their choices inevitably culminate in the same one fate? If one was to take a very negative view of things, it could be said that their will was not their own, their decisions not their own, and that they were merely a tool for the Gods to use as they saw fit.

Though many look upon power with a lustful eye, they do not see, or rather do not wish to see the weight of responsibility on the shoulders of those given it, or the near complete absence of freedom that accompanies it. To be given power, is to be given a lifelong decision; a fork in the road with only two options. You may either turn to the left, where every decision you make is your own and you hold no thought of who may suffer from your actions or lack thereof. It is the road of tyranny, of selfish indulgence that would mark the fate of many and is only separated from the other path by a hair's breadth. Or you may turn to the right, where your power ensures the freedom and prosperity of many who will come after you, though it means that you will forego the right to your own freedom for a time, and take the weight of the world on your shoulders. Yet when you turn to the right, the end of that path bears the friendship and devotion of many you have met through your journey. It is not the barren, fire-swept wasteland that you would find at the end of a selfish path, but one overflowing and abundant with the prosperity you have unwittingly cultivated. None except those with nothing better to do, such as myself, would ruminate and philosophise about the results of such decisions except in hindsight. Very few consider so greatly the consequences and end result of their decisions. It is possible for one to think too much. What fun would there be in life if one analysed and theorised the surprise and serendipity of each of our days in a carefully considered plan that would already be penned?

One man I knew is no exception. To the eye of the common man, he was blessed by the gods. To the eye of those with little sense, he was divinity given life in the body of a man. But he was merely a man, fallible and flawed as the rest of us. Inevitably though, as a figure of legend, his portrait has been moulded by the words of children's imaginings and an endless chain of tales that progressively grew more fictional and grand. Thus, I and many others, feel that an exposition of his true character and events that he did actually have a hand in, is exceedingly necessary. He did not play with words, bowing and flourishing and playing to the courts of nobles. He was a man of substance, and few words except what was actually of value to say. For this reason, many from a distance thought him aloof and impenetrable, a stoic wall of nordic sobriety. As sober as a nord could be.

Those fortunate enough to become acquainted with him however, would tell you that he was in fact perfectly amiable, once one got past the fact that he was kin to the dragons. His calling was not a happy one, as could be expected when his decisions were bound to the fate of Tamriel, yet he found joy in it. Driven by purpose and a great respect, if not love, for his people, everything he had was pledged to the safety and prosperity of Skyrim. If you were to enter the great mead hall in Whiterun, Jorrvaskr itself, and ask its companions to tell you of the Dragonborn, you would be hard pressed to find a truer account of his character elsewhere.

Their Harbinger was known for his ability to find humour in almost every situation. His was an attitude formed by trial and hardship, a character refined by a life that many would balk at when they heard of it, discounting it as falsehood. A unique character, when he was at ease and himself, he allowed his humour to show. The persona he had stumbled into would slip and he would just be himself. Unusually though, with his physically imposing frame and classic handsome nordic appearance, he would flee the advances of women, more bashful than a stunned deer. I cannot describe to you, dear reader, how humorous it was to see this man of legend reduced to a somewhat scarlet-faced semblance of an adolescent young boy.

In many ways, I believe this was a credit to his character. His sincerity was apparent in his obvious embarrassment, and was, from the account of many, rather endearing. He did not prefer men, as some believed at first, and he was not incapable of companionship, and the things that accompanied such. Nor was he a cowardly boy. He was simply aware of his own mortality, and wished to leave none with the burden of his passing, though whether he intended to or not, many already considered him as dear as a brother, if not more so.

When the time called for it, he spoke forth with wisdom, and his thoughts did not leave his mouth before careful consideration in most cases. As with us all, there were times when he would rather forget what his tongue had brought forth, in an angered or thoughtless moment. In fact, he was particularly careful with his voice, knowing that the thu'um held within it the power of life and death.

At times, he was reckless, though I could not tell you whether it was born of desperation and need or an inordinate fascination with coming within a hair's breadth of the precipice of death and peering over the edge. To see him in combat was to see a whirlwind, moving uncannily quickly and a sublime combination of moves that was exceedingly unusual for a nord. One can attribute this to his time in High Rock, though very few knew that he spent much of his youth there, and even fewer know what he did in his sojourn. There he learnt the art of archery, and of wielding two swords seamlessly together. One often asked whether he planned every single manoeuver in advance, playing the action out in his mind before he executed it, as every stroke and fall of his weapon seemed to find its mark, almost without fail, regardless of how ridiculously hopeless it had appeared at first. None will ever really know if he was a true combative genius, or if he simply had grasped a sword in his hand for so many years that every move was predictable and easily evaded. Like a master of chess playing against a student of merely a week.

Yet, with all his noble character and apparent skill, he came with scars and he came with darkness. I suppose it was to be expected. One could not pass through life with the soul of a scaled, fire-shouting reptile without feeling some of the flame that flared in their kind. He did well to conceal it from so many, for so long. Though those closest to him had some inkling of a wild, tyrannical and dangerous side that would emerge as he fought alongside him, he never truly revealed it, even suppressing it within himself. It took his worst enemy, the World-eater, to make him acknowledge its existence.

He fought with every single emotion that any of us could put a name to: anger, hatred, lust, guilt, suffering, unrest, ardour, passion, love, compassion, peace. Each one he felt in earnest, perhaps even more so than we, with two souls united inside him. He never spoke of whether he could actually sense the souls of the dragons he had devoured within him, but doubtless they were within him. It was for this reason, that some who had no knowledge of his character shrank from him in fear. There was a time when he would sit in the corner of an inn, watching and observing with careful eyes those around him, who tended to give the hooded figure a wide berth. But without fail, he would seek to rectify that, walking over to those at the far table and pouring mead into their tankard when he saw the bottom of the cold metal through the remaining dregs of liquid, as he said the words, "Friend, your glass is empty. Let me get you some more." From that time onwards, he would be welcome at their table for the rest of the evening. Let it be known that if all else fails, mead is the way to the heart of a nord. Yet he was still feared by many, and rightfully so, for though he was, by all accounts, good, he was the most dangerous man in Skyrim, if not Tamriel. At times, it pained him, this hybrid of dragon and man. We know not what other magic may have run in his blood, for all other rumours surrounding his involvement with daedra are just as they seem to be: rumours. Unfounded. At least to my knowledge.

There was one particular flaw that will further humanise this fabled figure - the desire for vengeance. Before the great news of the felling of the World-eater, he sought the Dawnguard, the group of vampire hunters credited with exterminating a particularly nefarious clan of vampires, whom I do not have the ink to speak of. He sought them for the power to destroy that which he hated most, that which had stolen from his friends and from himself. To the benefit of us all though, his search returned to him something else, far greater than what he thought he desired. How often is it that when in search of something, the gods deliver us not what we want, but what we need? And how often is it that the gift is far greater than what we ever thought we desired? Though once a cynic, it is with reverence that I say that their thoughts are high above ours.

It was in this pursuit that his doubts emerged, the truth of his existence as not quite human becoming real to him. He found within himself, something that he feared, reflected the same in his reluctant ally. They were not so different, yet entirely dissimilar. He found in himself something he did not like, a malice and prejudice born unjustly from bitterness toward one individual of an entire race. Though, to be fair, the race itself was somewhat frowned upon by all in Tamriel. In his companion though, he also found something that he admired. This mortal enemy that he sought to destroy, one he had sworn to hunt after it stole away the lives of his friends, showed him exactly how his two selves (or three if you subscribe to the rumours) could coexist in harmony. That the dragon blood was not an unpredictable curse, but a gift that gave him the strength of hundreds of men, and a fierce loyalty and devotion to those he held dear. Out of this unusual and unpredictable alliance, came a great friendship and loyalty none would ever foresee, its worth invaluable and irreplaceable. Within the pages of this account, you will find how such a change in two persons wholly alien to each other came to be.

There was something else that he taught us in his own passage through life, dear reader. Many, when gazing up at dragons while running from the flames that would emerge from their great maws, failed to see the majesty before them and the nobility that was seated upon their majestic, though often tyrannical brow. Dragons would not flee from battle. They would be carried down to death before they ever forsook the cause they clung to. They were, and are, honest creatures of integrity. If they gave you their word, you would know that you could stand upon it and the foundations would not crumble. There was no deceit in them: they were either for you or against you. The same cannot be said for many of our own people in that time. Treachery and corruption were ripe, and the dragons, as well as the Dovahkiin were a strange source of constancy.

For many in Skyrim, their greatest concern was seeing out the end of each day with their family still intact. Few thought ahead, considering the future, and even fewer lived in the now. Though it brings me great sorrow to say, most lived in the past, unable to release their strangle-hold on the neck of already long-dead foes. For many, it was the bitter hatred toward the Thalmor of the Aldmeri dominion. They held onto the treachery of the White-Gold Concordat, wringing its neck with all the festering bitterness that had simmered so long, driving their actions, in some cases to irrationality. They were unable to move forward, to take the fight to the Thalmor, instead taking their anger and presenting it to their kinsman as a poisoned apple. So many lives were wasted because of their inability to see what their in-house fighting was accomplishing, weakening our country. And by extension, their hatred of altmer would reach far and wide to any being of pointy-eared physiognomy. Such it was for many who fell under the banner of the Stormcloak rebellion. So it was that Skyrim was divided, leaderless and turning on those at whose backs they should have stood as the rear-guard.

Let me make it clear though, dear reader, that in no way do I condone the wanton oppression that every province of Tamriel, except the ever-resolute people of Hammerfell, fell under the weight of. There is nothing worse than being torn from tradition and honouring of the gods that have knitted cultures and families together for generations. I myself am a firm worshipper of our great Talos, and laughed the authority of the Thalmor to scorn while I swung my hammer in his name.

In those times, no one knew who was in bed with the enemy, or who had a dagger hidden in their skirts. Trust was an ambiguous word, and carried little meaning to any but those foolish or determined enough to believe that such a thing could still exist between two people, be they man or mer. Yet, it existed between the dragonborn and his mortal enemy, so who could question the possibility of such a thing if two such individuals were determined enough to create it?

While those loyal to Ulfric Stormcloak and those who sided with the Empire traded barbed words that wore a mask of honour and patriotism, and the common citizens tended to their daily tasks, and bandits raided and plundered, beneath all their noses, the World-eater was returning. Some years ago, I had the great fortune of travelling to the very place where Alduin's return and the coming of the Dragonborn were prophesied. Please forgive me though, dear reader, for not revealing the location to you as I am under oath to never let its name pass my lips. Thus I will carry it to my grave. But let me tell you what I saw there. In the most intricately carved stone, the prophecy was depicted in flame and blood and sword.

_ When misrule takes its place at the eight corners of the world,_

_ When the Brass tower walks and Time is reshaped,_

_ When the thrice-blessed fail and the Red Tower trembles,_

_ When the Dragonborn Ruler loses his throne, and the White Tower falls,_

_ When the Snow Tower lies sundered, kingless, bleeding,_

_ The World-Eater wakes, and the Wheel turns upon the Last Dragonborn._

These are the words that bound the Dragonborn to the fate of his people. Now, you will forgive me as I do not have the time to explain to you the history behind the first four lines of the prophecy, as it would take at least an entire seven-day to expound its origins. Frankly, nor do I have the inclination to do so at the moment. I hope it will suffice for you to know that the second to last line is imagery of Skyrim herself, the snow tower being the Throat of the World, our greatest mountain. And I have enough faith in your intelligence to know that you will easily understand the reference to sundered, kingless and bleeding. Finally, we do not need a lesson in literary exposition to understand what is meant by the final line.

I do not wish to imagine a life living under the weight of such words. Whoever thought the Dragonborn removed, aloof and to be mortally feared was a fool, for his actions are evidence enough of how great a sacrifice was made for his people. And not even in this one act. Every family heirloom that was retrieved, every child rescued, and those greater plots that he foiled that his friends have declined to speak of, makes a liar of those who would call him selfish and solitary. For there is no greater love than this, to have lied down his life for his friends.

The last time I saw him, he left me with some interesting words. He had brought me the Elder Scrolls, and fool that I am, I asked him how many septims he wanted for them. What he said will never leave my memory. "I have no need for that, Urag. I cannot take gold where I am going. Besides, my treasure lies elsewhere." When I asked him where exactly that was, he replied in a rare moment of complete seriousness, "With those I love." And so, with this recommendation, dear reader, I encourage you to turn the page and begin to read the account of the Dragonborn and how he was changed by those he loved.

~ Urag gro-Shub, Master of the Library of the College of Winterhold, 5E 27


End file.
